


Power and Control

by hanniwrites



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Erebor Reclaimed, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, Implied Relationships, Kidnapping, King Thorin, M/M, Nudity, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Thorin, Post-Canon, Prisoner of War, Thorin-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 23:18:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18040985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanniwrites/pseuds/hanniwrites
Summary: The Battle has been fought, yet old grudges remain held. Thorin, King Under the Mountain and N°1 grudge-holder against Thranduil of the Woodland Realm is keen on plotting the latter's downfall, though his methods may not always be that ethical...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is based on a roleplay story I'm writing with my friend.

How did this even happen? It was beyond humiliating and outrageous. The last thing he remembered was accepting Thorin Oakenshield’s invitation to meet him in his treasure hall, for he believed the Dwarf had finally agreed to give him his white gems, and then he had felt a sharp pain before everything went black. Now he was finally awake, but he suddenly wished he wasn’t. He was chained to a pillar, sitting in an endless pool of gold. His normally calm and expressionless face was marred by a look of bewilderment and confusion as he struggled to break free in vain.

“What is the meaning of this?!” he yelled, hoping that the stupid Dwarf was nearby and would immediately put an end to this thing, whatever it was.

***

Perhaps his accusations had been right when the Elvenking had scolded Thorin for his greed long ago, when their paths first crossed. Perhaps, he took after his father indeed, as well as his grandfather. Who could tell? Thranduil was no longer in any position to say anything that may not please the ears of Thorin Oakenshield, the King under the Mountain. Now, it was the Elvenking’s turn to feel the way Thorin had done for nearly a century. Now it was his turn to be the prisoner. Thorin would only be lying if he would tell anyone he does not enjoy the fact of having the Elvenking in his treasure hall, captured like a trophy - another piece of gold. Or in his case, perhaps silver. 

Thorin’s orders had been clear in order to create such schemes and set-up. When Thranduil awakens, the first thing he would need to see would be those beautiful white gems he had been so bitter about - the shining whites he had still dared to call his own so many years after he chose to leave the Dwarves in despair. He could see his treasure, but he was not allowed to touch nor reach for it. 

“Is it not but a blink in the life of an Elf, to gaze upon a hundred years in the life of a Dwarf?” Thorin did not reveal himself, but his voice sounded clear enough to indicate that he was nearby. The Mountain King smirked to himself and leaned his head back against the opposite side of the same pillar the Elf found himself against. 

Thranduil turned his head to the direction of the deep voice of the Dwarf the moment he started to speak, immediately figuring out where he was. He stopped struggling against the heavy chains, for he knew he could not let himself loose no matter how hard he’d try. The cold metal bit into his unblemished skin every time he tried to move his arms.

How dare he, though? Did he not know what the Elf was a King too, and that this absurdity would not go unpunished? The Sindar remained silent for a while, breathing through his nose angrily, trying to calm himself down. Panicking was just not something he would do, he had to stay calm. But how?

"Release me at once, Oakenshield. My army will lay a siege to your wretched inn if I don’t return. I do not know what you’re hoping to achieve with this, but you will regret it. If there is some sanity left in you, give into it and release me, so that we can discuss this in a civil manner. I will not warn you again.” He spoke quietly, then waited for the Dwarf to reveal himself. Not that he was eager to be seen in this position, no. It’d only humiliate him more to have the Dwarf looking at him right now. But he hoped his calm demeanor would discourage Oakenshield and change his mind about treating him like a mere slave.

Thorin watched how he twirled his foot around in meaningless circles, listening to the Elf’s words. It was a strong difference, between his first anger and his sudden, typical calm demeanour. Unfortunately for Thranduil, there was only so little he may gain with it. Upon their previous meetings, the Elvenking had not exactly bothered approaching Thorin Oakenshield as a king, so why should the latter do the same now that the tables have been turned?

“They may try,” Thorin replied. “But other than Dwarves, the only one who found his way into these mountains was a dragon.” Thorin did not fear the threat. His trust in the strength of his home was much bigger than the idea he had of the forces of an army of Elves. Thorin believed that he would not lose his home another time - that its doors will not once open for traitors or Men with other ill meanings. 

It was both, his age and the aftermath of the Battle catching up with the Dwarven King when Thorin chose to rise to his feet after all - he wanted to see the Elvenking, knowing the harm it would do onto him. He had looked death in the eye on that day, but he had lived to see his folk prosper once more, after many decades of living in poverty and dishonour not a single one of them had deserved. The small grunt resonated through the hall, making it the only thing about his treasury Thorin did not like one bit. He needed not to be reminded of how he became a very old king with a mountain full of gold and too many sore spots on his body to count. He needed not to remember that the Elf on the other side of that pillar was much older than himself, yet he looked much younger. It drove him mad with envy, from time to time.

“This is a manner as civil as you deserve, Elvenking. It is almost alike to how you have treated me and my kind for as long as I can remember. It is merely what you brought upon yourself.”

Letting out a quiet sigh, the Elvenking closed his eyes briefly and rested his head back against the pillar he was chained to. Once again, his attempts at reasoning with a Dwarf had failed, and truth be told he was not exactly surprised, but it was no less frustrating.

He had known defeat, he had known pain and torture, but such degradation was something he had not tasted before. He did not know what the Dwarf had in mind. To kill him? It was not really a thought that filled his heart with dread. He was not eager to die, but he had lived a long life, longer than some he had lost along the road. No, dying was the least of his concerns. But Legolas would come for him, and the thought of something happening to his son, now that filled his heart with immense fear.

'Hurling insults and threats will gain me nothing’, he thought to himself. He had to be calm and wise if he wished to walk out of this cursed kingdom in one piece and without causing a war.  
“Thorin.” He breathed out the name, sounding somewhat tired. No formal titles, no epithets, no nothing. “Come out of the shadows, let me see you. Do that much of courtesy at least, before you kill me, like you have always wanted.”

For a Dwarf, Thorin moved quietly. But for an Elf, it may perhaps sound like they were being approached by an army of Men instead. Thorin didn’t care, nor did it matter. They were not in Mirkwood now. This is where the Dwarves rule and Thranduil hardly had any power within these walls. Thorin wondered if the Elvenking had received the reminder. He had wanted it to be quite clear, but it may just be that he had been too optimistic as well about his counterpart when he thought up this plan. 

There was a limp in his right leg. Thorin only took the steps necessary in order to give that which Thranduil had asked for so uncharacteristically submissive and kindly. It did something to the King under the Mountain, but he kept it hidden behind a neutral look in his eyes - or a look as neutral as it could be. 

Thorin sought most of his support on his good leg, needing his other foot to earn at least some rest. His irritation with the Elf, he could hide, but masking up the aftermath of the Battle would take a little more time. The pain was still fresh and sore, keeping him awake at night just when Thorin thought he would be able to find his sleep again once he could be back home.

“You spared my life, Elvenking. I see no need in taking yours.” Thorin confessed. For once, he could look down at the Elvenkind, and it felt oddly satisfying.

The slight grunt of pain and the sound of the Dwarf’s staggering footsteps indicated that he was in pain, perhaps his wounds had not healed yet. Of course, it took them longer to recover compared to an Elf. The realization made him wonder why the Dwarf assumed that he’d be envious of such a fragile race, he could not think of a single positive trait they had that the Elves hadn’t.

When he opened his eyes, Thorin was standing in front of him. ‘He looks older,’ Thranduil thought to himself as he eyed the Dwarf not so subtly. He looked quite satisfied with himself as he gazed down at the Elvenking in chains, his eyes glinting with joy and pride. Beads made of precious metals adorned the braids in his long locks, and the white strands in his hair had increased. He was dressed richly, wearing that bizarre Dwarven crown upon his dark head as if to remind the Elf of his newly regained position as a monarch. He wanted to hate it. He wanted to hate him and mock him and everything he stood for, he wanted to remind him of the fact the Dwarves were and always would be inferior, but even with all the pain and weariness that the other King had failed to hide; he looked anything but inferior, at least to Thranduil. He was regal, and proud, and strong, and beautiful, and thank Valar, he was alive.

“I do not know why I spared you, but now that I am in such distress I begin to think perhaps I shouldn’t have,” the elf spoke, though there was a slight smile on his face despite the situation he was in. “If that is not why I’m here, then what is the purpose of this? Ah, perhaps you’d like to torture me. But I must warn you, you’ll not find it as entertaining as you thought it would be, for there is nothing you can do that hasn’t already been done to me," he added coldly, holding the eye contact with a challenging look on his face.

“We are no Orcs!” Thorin was not quite pleased with the subtle insult he had found in the Elvenking’s words. It was not entirely an offense, but Thorin Oakenshield was just like any other Dwarf, an incredibly proud individual. He could not let just anyone speak ill of his kind, or himself. Harm was not necessarily on his mind when he considered capturing the Elvenking, for Thranduil had spared all lives of his own Company as well when they had been captured on their journey through Mirkwood. The animosity between the two kings knows a different course. There was the hatred for the other, yet there was something more about them as well. It was nearly as if, in the end, they could not lay a hand upon the other that would disrespect them, because both kings seem to value their honour and their pride above their need for petty acts. 

“You said you wanted to have that which belongs to you,” Thorin then continued. He’d sighed softly, calming his temper. “You told me you wanted to take back your precious white gems.” Now, the Dwarven King looked to his other side, where he had ordered the Elvenking’s treasure to be displayed, nicely out of Thranduil’s reach, but right there where he could hardly look past it. “Yet even when I return to you that which you want, after everything you have done to me and my people, you still choose your petty insults over your own grace.”

The Dwarf’s strong voice echoed through the halls and made the walls tremble when he raised it. 'Such aggressive voices these Dwarves have', the Elf thought to himself as he stared up at him indifferently. He had seen and heard too much to cringe at the sound of a Dwarf’s guttural shout.

He was aware that he was not amongst Orcs, and yet the treatment he was facing felt no less hostile, and he was sure there was more to come. There was no way that the Dwarven King had planned all this just to have him chained to his pillar for a few hours. 

Thranduil had put on a more serious expression when the Dwarf approached a little, speaking with a less threatening tone, almost as if he wished to negotiate. Following the Dwarf’s gaze, he turned his head to the direction he was looking at and his eyes widened at the side of the white gems. The mere sight of them brought a look of sadness to his face. He seemed lost in memories as he stared long and hard before swallowing and looking back at Thorin as if the Dwarf had just shot him. He didn’t like to be toyed with, and he couldn’t understand where this was leading to.

“You have given me nothing, Oakenshield. What is it that you want, why am I here? Do you wish to negotiate for the gems?” he asked, shifting a little in discomfort and trying to sit still so that he’d look somewhat more respectable. “Unchain me. I am willing to forget about this absurdity and sign a treaty if you do not trust my word. There will be no more bad blood between the Dwarves of Erebor and Elves of the Woodland Realm if you give them to me.”

Thorin was listening, but did not make it seem like he was. He had heard every word the Elvenking had to say and he considered each one of them, but he could appear cold if he wanted to, and he would let Thranduil wait. After all, an Elf has a lot more time on their hands than a Dwarf. Thorin could wait a little longer, but never as long as Thranduil. It was sort of a game they would be playing in this near future. 

With his back still turned towards the Elvenking, Thorin headed for the treasure instead and chose one piece from it. The gem was quite large, but still it fit in his hand. Thorin watched it, bringing it closer so that he could have a better look at its colour and its texture. They were beautiful gems, indeed. He could see why the Elvenking valued them of great importance and value, for they carried that beauty that was typical to his prisoner’s kind. But Thorin did not care. 

With the gem still in his hand, he turned back to look at the other - and how it will never stop feeling good to be able to look down at the Elvenking. “Have I not given you your life, Elvenking?” he then asked. His thumb stroked over the surface of the white gem. “For many years, I have dreamt about killing you, about killing Elves for what you have done. And now that I have you here, weak and vulnerable after everything I have seen and you have chosen to ignore… I have decided to spare your life. And all you care about is your stupid gems.” It made Thorin Oakenshield laugh now, for he could still hear Thranduil spit his words so easily at the Dwarven King, about how selfish and greedy he is - nearly worse than his grandfather.

“I was not aware an Elf could carry such greed in his heart.”

As an ancient being, the Elvenking had always been good at reading people. They would always give themselves away, either with a look or a particular word. But at that moment, he found himself unable to guess the Dwarf’s next move. He gave away nothing, he was so painfully unpredictable that the Elf was surprised to find himself feeling nervous in someone’s presence. It was usually the other way around, with him being the highest authority in the room and the other partiest impatiently waiting for the words he’d utter next.

For a split second, Thranduil thought Thorin had truly considered his offer and decided to be reasonable when the Dwarf headed for the hoard of treasure and grabbed a white gem. He cared nothing for their beauty, upon looking at the gems the elf only thought of the beauty of whom they reminded him of. It was a painful thing to admit, since he was known to be anything but sentimental. But that was why it hurt and offended him this much that these greedy Dwarves had stolen what was meant to be a gift for her, and now they treated him like a beggar for asking them back.

The Dwarf’s next words only fueled his resentment, which he was no longer able to hide. His breathing had become laboured and his once serene eyes were darkened.

“How you can be so stupid, it is truly beyond me,” the elf spat, his previous calmness and politeness nowhere to be seen. 

“Do you really think I value my life at all? Valar knows I’d much rather die the most terrible death imaginable than having this filthy, ignorant excuse of a king flaunting in front of me with mine own property! And even with all the chains you have put me in so cowardly, I am anything but weak and vulnerable!” Thranduil shouted, then gave Thorin a knowing look. He doubted the Dwarf knew why he wanted the gems so badly, so he decided to make it clear.

“Don’t you dare call me greedy for wanting to take back what is rightfully mine, for you and your kind are the very embodiment of greed! I had sent those gems to this wretched place to have them made into a necklace for my wife but your dreadful grandfather refused to send them back to me once it was done, for their beauty had sickened his already sick mind. Such is the nature of Dwarves; they see something of great value and burn with desire to make it their own! Now kill me if you must, and become not only a thief but also a murderer, for I can see it in your eyes how much it disturbed you to hear the truth about the gems you like to taunt me for. I have left very little to live for anyway, and knowing that all the elves of Arda will come to burn your cursed kingdom down for it would give me immense pleasure in my dying moments!"

It will never cease to anger Thorin to hear someone else shout at him, let alone insult him for things that were not even his own doing. Nor would Thorin ever tollerate the hatred for his kind, no matter which clan these Dwarves would belong to. They are all still Dwarves, and to carry pride and respect for all of them was a sign of strength, a sign of a good king and a great ruler. Thorin still hoped he could be an example to his kind, even with everything he’s seen, done and felt and with everything that could still come for him. It was not until his older years that his grandfather had turned mad with greed, and Thorin’s father, too, has had his fair share of madness. Thorin knew that one day, it’ll come for him as well, if it has not done so already. He couldn’t tell for himself.

Hearing the Elvenking’s words, Thorin could not help but clench the bright gem in his fist. He had been angered, the threat of Thranduil’s voice resonating in the enormous hall around them. The echo made a spark of adrenaline run through the Dwarven King’s spine, all the way up to the crown on his head where his ears burned hot in sheer fury. Thorin nearly felt like he would soon be the next being to spit fire within these halls after the dragon Smaug. 

Thorin launched the gem at the Elvenking’s head, it being the first thing he had at hand which could serve as a weapon, or a sign of his anger in this matter. His hand now free, he could point towards the other king, his own eyes darkened with anger meeting those of the Elf. 

“For one of your age one would expect for you to be much wiser - to look past the wrongdoings of those who have long passed! After my father, I am now King under the Mountain and heed my word for when I tell you this: the only thief was the dragon who defiled these mountains!” Thorin moved slowly in his pace as he spoke his anger-filled words, stepping towards the prisoner king. He did not stop until he was close enough to touch him. “You would know this, if you knew how to look further than the length of your stupid ears,” Thorin hissed, his voice now much gentler than earlier. Additional to his words, he’d reached out to flick a finger against the Elvenking’s ear.


	2. Chapter 2

Thranduil had turned his head aside to avoid the sight of the Dwarf after his anger-filled speech. So, when something incredibly hard and sharp hit him right on the head unexpectedly; he couldn’t help but gasp. The pain was surprisingly blinding, he had probably hit his head against the pillar behind him because of the blow so his entire skull hurt and he felt dizzy. He couldn’t focus on the first half of Thorin’s speech because of his condition, but it mattered little. He was not very eager to listen anyway. Warm blood pouring out of the cut the gem had left on the side of his head painted his pale hair crimson and he blinked several times to clear his vision. Funny, he couldn’t remember the last time he bled.

When he looked up again, he came face to face with the damnable Dwarf who reached out to poke him in the most mocking manner. This was too much. Perhaps the Dwarf was turning mad again. Yes, that must be it. He could not find another explanation for this illogical and immature behavior. But now he knew why Thorin had brought him here and set this trap. It was not to kill him, or torture him (at least not physically, even though he was now injured), but to mock him. To taunt him and wound his pride most cruelly, which was much worse than death to him. 'Look at me', he thought. 'Bound to a pillar, swimming in a pile of cursed gold with blood dripping down my face as this creature pushes me around like some rabbit in a cage.' He couldn’t believe that he once had feelings for this Dwarf who wanted nothing to do with him other than breaking him. His face burned with shame at the thought of his people – his son seeing him in such a pitiful state.

And before he could stop it, or at least turn his head aside to hide it; a treacherous tear escaped his eye and rolled down his cheek. The Elvenking said nothing, at least not with his lips. There was nothing left to be said to this creature anymore. He simply stared up at the face of the person he could no longer recognize with sheer disgust and disbelief.

Being this close to the Elvenking, Thorin took the advantage of his vulnerable state one last time, for now, when he reached for the crimson-stained hair. He let it slip through his fingers, and watched how the silver and the red had mixed into something fascinating. “Funny,” Thorin murmured to himself. “You Elves do bleed after all,” he added on once he could step away again, leaving the Elf and his misery be. It was a strange sight, Thorin could only admit to himself. Once, he had seen something great in Thranduil. Once, he had looked up to the Elvenking and although he was an Elf, he had left something intriguing in Thorin’s chest once their ways parted by force. Thorin had found inspiration in the other king – a leader of his own folk, but never dared to admit this to himself or to someone else for many, many years. 

There was still a little bit of red left on his fingers. Thorin looked at it, brushed his fingers over one another and then wiped them off in the fur of his long, black cloak. He hated this. He hated this situation. It just felt so wrong, yet good, and the longer he looked at Thranduil, the more he felt himself in doubt about it. For someone he had once loved, this was perhaps too much, but for someone who had hurt him and for someone who had stood there and watched while Dwarves were being eaten and burned alive in their own home, this was exactly what Thranduil deserves since he doesn’t fear death. Thorin had picked up from the tear in his eye that the Elvenking fears something else. The Dwarven King had seen and heard enough for now. He turned his back on the prisoner Elf and left. 

The Elf’s tear-filled eyes fell to the Dwarf’s large, coarse hand as it reached out to touch his blood-stained strands. What was the meaning of this, was it his way of comforting after causing damage, or was he relishing his pain? The latter seemed more likely at that moment. The Dwarves were fickle beings; but the look on this one’s face was more of a mixture of curiousity and awe rather than sympathy or regret.

Oh, Elves do bleed. He’d seen much more Elvish blood during his lifetime than he’d like to. He tilted his head to the side ever so slightly, narrowing his eyes at the statement as Thorin Oakenshield pulled away and rose to his feet. Despite his current situation and the display of tears and blood, Thranduil looked at the Dwarf with nothing but hatred and defiance as the said Dwarf enjoyed his oh-so-glorious accomplishment. He’d captured the Elvenking, he’d stripped him off his dignity, what then? What else was in store for him? And more importantly: how did he plan to get away with this? Because, if Thranduil could ever walk out of this cursed mountain in one piece, he was going to make him pay.

He said nothing, and watched the Dwarf leave him alone in the ocean of gold. He couldn’t tell if that was a relief or not; he was glad that he longer had to look at Thorin and be seen in such a pitiful state but he was also nervous about what was to come. Soon, a few Dwarven guards approached, telling him that their king was waiting for him somewhere else before leaning down to unchain him. The Elf simply glared daggers at them, contemplating how difficult it would be to take them all down the moment his hands were free. He was most certainly capable of doing so, but he’d get caught and be slain before he could flee and the last thing he wanted was to cause another war between Dwarves and Elves over such a stupid game. Yes, this whole thing was merely a game in his eyes but this time, he was the toy, not Thorin.


	3. Chapter 3

Thranduil let the guards lead him out of the treasure room and through a dark, narrow hall. He remained utterly silent and kept his chin high like a nobleman marching to his death with bitterness but also dignity. The gates opened, and he frowned in mild confusion when the place he was brought to turned out to be... a bathhouse? So the Dwarves bathed too, huh? News to him.  
He couldn’t tell why he was here, but he asked nothing. He simply waited for the malicous creature he once held dear to appear and make his intentions known.

As demanded, the bathhouse was empty when he arrived, except for one person – the one Thorin had requested to be brought there. The Dwarven King had almost forgotten about the Elf’s true length, for he could easily tower above him while Thranduil had been chained down as a prisoner. Now, the tables had turned, and Thranduil would now be looking down at Thorin again. But the Dwarf had not yet revealed himself. He remained lingering in the shadows for a bit longer and observed the other. He watched how Thranduil looked around with what seemed to be a look of disbelief in his eyes. Was it the size of the bathhouse, the idea of Dwarves actually being a clean folk or the confusion as to why he was brought to a bathhouse rather than some rampant to be tossed down a cliff? Thorin didn’t care enough to keep thinking about it.

“Undress yourself,” the Dwarven King commanded. He still stood somewhere dark enough for only part of his face to be revealed to the Elf. He himself was still fully dressed, and did not move. He had his hands folded in front of him and sought most of his support on his left foot to spare the injured one. Even now, in this very moment, Thorin was not yet certain what exactly it is that he wants to do with the Elf, or if the Elf would even listen to him. Thranduil has never been easy, and certainly not to Dwarves. Yet, it was worth the try. “You do not want those robes to be wet, or worse. There is plenty this mountain holds, but no robe will ever fit your likes. So, undress yourself, Elvenking.”

Thorin wanted to gain some time, if only to make up his mind. He had wanted to further humiliate the Elvenking, but perhaps not give him all of it at once. When he had touched the Elf to find the crimson red staining his fingertips, other things had come to Thorin’s mind. He had recalled a memory afterwards, once he was back alone. Thorin wished he could also forget about how Thranduil once had tended to the Dwarven Prince after he had gotten into a small fight with another, whose anger towards Thrór had taken the upperhand. The situation was different now, however, but Thorin still felt a need to now take care of the Elf.

“I have heard those whispers,” Thorin continued. Now, he did move, and revealed himself to the Elvenking. “In Dunland, as well as in the Blue Mountains. Whispers of us, Dwarves, being as filthy as we sound when we speak our own language.” There was a slight hint of anger in his voice, for as a Dwarf, Thorin took great pride in the old tongue of his Fathers. “See for yourself, Elvenking. Our baths are not any different than any other bath you may find in this world.”

The bathhouse was surprisingly large, almost as big as Thranduil's own, decorated with splendor and extravagance like the rest of Erebor. He could see the flawless carvings on the walls and colorful gemstones in them even though it was dimly lit by a few candle holders. 

The Dwarven King’s command snapped him out of it, and he let his eyes wander for a moment before finally spotting him, standing in the other corner of the room somewhat eerily. Perhaps it was the darkness that hid most of his features, or perhaps it was his command itself which appalled the Elf. It was a rare sight to see Thranduil at a loss for words, his mouth opening and closing several times. When he was hit by that blasted gemstone, he thought he couldn’t be any more humiliated, but apparently he was wrong.

He was both horrified and furious, how dare this creature ask, oh, not even ask; command of him such a thing? He stood there like a statue, frozen, his eyes fixed on the Dwarf. But who could blame him for feeling so insulted? He genuinely believed that Thorin’s intention was nothing but to degrade him more by stripping him off his clothes, like he stripped him off his dignity. To make him feel even more vulnerable and weak and ashamed. 

He opened his mouth once again, ready to spit all the venomous words and retorts he’d been harbouring, but then, instead of doing so he swallowed them back. That would only push them back where they started, the exchange of insults and threats and perhaps some more violence. It would gain him nothing. If he wished to walk out of this place, he had to be unpredictable. Besides, he couldn’t allow Thorin the pleasure of seeing him on the verge of tears once again.

The Elf’s expression changed from horror and aversion to acceptance and submission. He even smiled a little. And then, he raised his hands slowly to push his robe off of his shoulders and let it pool around his boots. The redness around his wrists left by the unyielding chains could be seen. It was quite odd how soft and fragile an Elf’s skin might be, despite the fact they were know to be the most resilient of all the races.

His jerkin and undershirt followed next. He began to unlace it as slowly as possible, in an attempt to hide the trembling of his slender fingers for it might give him away. He didn’t want Thorin to know how enraged and offended he felt, he wanted the Dwarf to believe he was completely in charge of the situation. 

He let them drop to the floor, his upper body almost fully exposed apart from the strands of thick, platinum hair hiding some parts of his pale skin. The Elvenking's confidence began to falter when he reached his trousers. For a brief moment, Thranduil looked as if he was about to stab himself before unlacing his breeches too but this time in haste. Without giving the Dwarf a chance to say more, he removed his boots too and headed straight for the pool to step inside, so that he could have some sort of privacy with the help of the darkness of the water.

As long as Thorin did not speak, it was silence that ruled between the two of them in the bathhouse, for Thranduil only had so little to say in return, it seems. There was something pleasant about it, about the fact the Elvenking for once did not have any word on his tongue in order to tell the Dwarven King how he feels about him and his kind. It felt pleasing to Thorin, to know that the despicable Elf had finally been silenced, after all these years of speaking ill about another race, and this only because just one Dwarf had harmed his pride many years ago. Thorin felt good, knowing that the Dwarf who had fueled Thranduil’s despise for his kind was his grandfather, and he wondered how it felt to the Elvenking to be brought to utter silence by the grandson of who he had always called a thief.

Thorin paced around, expressing patience. He had plenty of it, in this moment at least. His hands remained folded in front of him as he went, the sound of his boots wandering over the stone floor resonating around the large surroundings of the bathhouse. Like many other large halls in Erebor, its ceiling was so far above them it nearly disappeared into darkness, leaving one with the impression that this hall could as well be endless. 

He barely had eyes for the Elf, and let Thranduil do his own thing. What had seemed to be mindless wandering for a while now changed into a walk with a cause and a destination. On a stone pillar in the centre of the area laid a number of towels and cloths and a fiew pieces of soap. They were always present, for any who may not have them for their own, or for those who happen to forget. Thorin fetched a piece of cloth and a chunk of soap before he returned to the bath where the Elf was glaring daggers at his counterpart. He rose the tools, showing them to the Elvenking, before he tossed them in his direction, this time not meaning anything hostile or vile with his act. He merely wanted Thranduil to have and to use them. 

Thorin offered the Elvenking one last look before he turned in his heels. He folded his hands back in front of him, hiding them in the sleeves of his long, black coat. Its gold emboidery reflected a little in the dim candle light, reminding the Elf of his status as a king rather than the idea of Thorin being no more than an evil being with bad intentions. The fur of the coat followed behind the Dwarven King, drawing its trail in the few wet stains on the stone floor. He left the hall through the same door Thranduil had been brought inside. He had disappeared from sight, but he had not yet disappeared from this scene.

Thranduil’s silence by no means meant he had completely accepted his fate - whatever that fate may be - and was going to let himself be toyed around by the Dwarf. He had remained silent, for if he’d dare to utter a single word it would not be a pretty one and he would give himself away by doing so. He had to look as calm and unaffected as he could muster; just so the vengeful creature who dared to test him yet again could find no pleasure in their current situation. Despite the dire circumstances, Thranduil too was a king, a much older and more experienced one at that.

He would not cringe for a Dwarf.

Now his lower body gratefully hidden below the surface, he closed his eyes briefly to calm his nerves with the help of the hot water he was surrounded by. However it was a short-lived peacefulness, for his eyes opened once more the second he heard the Dwarf move. ‘Why is this wretched creature still here?’ The Elf thought to himself as Thorin paced around, like a shark circling its prey. Their eyes met, only as the Dwarf offered him what appeared to be a piece of fabric and a soap for him to wash himself with. And of course, he had done it most uncivilly. Even if it was not his intention to slight the Elf further; the Elf was slighted nonetheless. No longer bound in chains, Thranduil caught the items that flew in his direction mid-air without taking his intense gaze off of Thorin. It was a look filled with pure resentment and disdain. It was a silent threat.

Not moving an inch, Thranduil continued to stare at the Dwarf eerily until he finally turned to leave, deciding to give the Elf his much needed privacy. A shaky exhale left the previously sealed lips the moment his enemy walked out of the bathhouse, his vision blurring with angry tears threatening to fall. He still could not believe he had ended up like this. It felt so very unfair to be in the grasp of a creature way beneath him, to be at his disposal, at his mercy. Alas, pitying himself would not help his cause. Thranduil could not allow himself to break down; not even behind closed doors. And so he let himself sink all the way down into the clean water, completely submerged as his silvery gold hair floated about. Remaining there until his need for air grew strong, he rose to the surface and began to wash himself with the small, musky scented soap he was offered. It was not pleasant, not to an Elf. The smell was too strong to his liking, not anything like the fresh scented oils he had favoured back at home. 

Home. He was not home anymore, and only Eru knew if he’d ever get there back alive.

The silence was deafening and it crept up the walls, all the way into the darkness that loomed so far above his head there where candle light failed to reach it. The Dwarven King stood leaning against the wall, right next to the door that would take him back to the bathhouse, and the Elvenking. But he did not go back there. No, not yet. He could not go back there yet. He felt too anxious, to go back. Where the anxious feeling came from, Thorin could not tell. And perhaps that very thought only amplified the insecurity he felt.

He had brought up his hands, and clutched them tightly around the wealthy fur lapels of his cloak, fists clenched into the soft dark mass. There was the urge to sink down against the wall and give in to these suffocating feelings, but Thorin needed to hold on. He could not be weak now, even if the one on the other side of this wall may be feeling just as weak.

One of the reasons why Thorin had left the bathhouse was because he was curious about Thranduil’s intentions, and his dedication. He wondered if the Elvenking would try to escape if given the chance – and Thorin wished not to risk for Thranduil to leave this bath house to find the mad king weeping on his own stone cold floor. But it had never been the only reason why Thorin had left. Yes, he had desired for the Elvenking to have at least that little bit of privacy left in his life. Thorin could not take away everything at once, but he could strip the Elf of all his luxuries and all his dignity bit by bit… But the privacy did not make up for all his reasons other than his curiosity either. There was more to this, more which made the Dwarven King so anxious. There was more, which was reaching for the deepest chambers of Thorin Oakenshield’s heart, there where he had not dared to look for years, even decades! For how long had he thought about the Elvenking as someone, rather than something, that he desired to have and to hold and to call his own? A young lad, Thorin Oakenshield was, when he first laid eyes on Thranduil of the Woodland Realm, and how completely mesmerized he had been by the Elvenking’s eternal youth and the power which he had. How deeply Thorin admired the other for the respect his kin had for their king. For so long, Thranduil had been naught but a dream, a dream to turn into a nightmare the day the Dragon came – and a nightmare that had turned into a wicked desire the day the Dragon fell and the Mountain was reclaimed.

Thorin snapped out of his vivid and rapid train of thoughts upon hearing the distant sounds of someone moving around in their bath. It was a gentle and most innocent sound. The Elvenking must have taken the hint that he was meant to wash himself now that he was given a chance. And he had better made a move for it as well, for the Dwarven King had returned back to him, the only sound filling the room being the subtle scraping of his injured foot against the stone floor each time Thorin took a step. He went to pick up the Elf’s clothes, having very little interest in Thranduil.

“Get out.”

Grateful to the newfound solitude, the Elf had begun to clean himself as quietly as possible. Quietly, because the bathhouse was so big even the slightest noise he made, the slightest splash of water echoed through the halls eerily and made him feel uncomfortable due to the realization of where he was. He had started with his hair, trying to get all the blood off of the pale strands. Another bitter reminder; Thorin Oakenshield had made him bleed. Once again, Thranduil found himself cursing the day he fell for the wretched Dwarf, believing him to be any different than the rest of his kind and naively thinking that the feeling was not one-sided. Because if he were right, he would not be facing such a degrading treatment today. Thranduil refused to accept that this was all Thorin’s madness, and his burning desire to get revenge. No sickness, or grudge could make a person treat a loved one the way Thorin was treating him now, or so he thought.

Soon the water around him was tainted crimson. Both his face where he was hit by the blasted gemstone and the back of his head where he had hit against the pillar started to bleed again as he tried to clean the cuts. There was nothing to worry about, though. He knew it would stop soon and start to heal until the bruises were nowhere to be seen. He was an Elf, after all. No bruise on his body stayed for long. The ones on his heart, however..

Thranduil stopped in his tracks when Oakenshield stormed back inside, looking strangely furious and in haste. The Elf wasn’t even done yet, and he could not understand the reason behind this sudden change of heart. Wasn’t it the Dwarf’s request to have him washed in the first place? He couldn’t help but think it was simply another attempt at insulting him; to toy with him and show him that he had no choice but to indulge Oakenshield’s every whim.

Calmly, he rinsed his hair once more and squeezed the water out of his long hair before slowly rising out of the water. At least the small creature was not staring at his vulnerably exposed body, which was relieving. Not even being given anything resembling a towel, he stood there expectantly, still completely bare and dripping with water.

“Now what?” He spoke for the first time in a while, his voice completely devoid of emotion. “If you’re planning on taking my robes as well I wouldn’t bother, there is nothing more you can do to humiliate me any further.”

“Then I assume you would hold no offense if I take them,” Thorin called out sternly as he headed out to leave at once. He called for his guard in the hallway, the rumble of his voice undoubtedly resonating even within the bath house. 

Thorin disappeared into the many corridors of his kingdom with a clear destination in mind while his guards would take care of the Elf. Thranduil had enjoyed his fair share of luxuries for the day, and needed to be brought back to his shackles and his ties. Though now, he would not be faced with his gems. This time, Thranduil would be given naught but a cold little cell one would assign to anything less than a Petty Dwarf!

This much trust, the Dwarven King still held in his guards, for they were well aware of what their king was expecting of them. Before the arrival of the Elvenking at Erebor when they were still plotting Thranduil’s capture, Thorin had made sure that every Dwarf involved was aware of the intention of this dangerous task, as well as what their part in it would be like. This way, the tasks would be divided and the Elvenking would become as much of a nuisance as any other prisoner in no time – or so everyone else thought about it.

But Thorin Oakenshield did not.

For Thorin, there was more about this whole thing than he had dared to expect when they had plotted the Elvenking’s downfall. He had always thought this would be nothing more than torment and a very slow, deserved death for the Elvenking. But then he had made the Elvenking bleed that same crimson red Thorin Oakenshield had seen pouring from his own wounds – Elves bleed as easily as Dwarves do. It had struck a soft spot he didn’t know he had, it had left the Dwarven King feeling odd about it all. 

The large door of his chambers fell shut behind him. Thorin had carried the Elvenking’s clothes all this way with him, and left them on his bed before he disappeared into one of the few smaller chambers that were connected to the bedroom he had always known to be his own. Even as a king, he had not changed his old quarters for those of his grandfather. 

There, in that small chamber, he took off his crown and set it aside on a large, deep green cushion. He was done being a king, and feeling like a king. When all alone, he could allow himself to be himself and to feel like himself. 

The Dwarf moved slowly as he headed back to his main quarters, his gaze immediately crossing with the Elven robes he had left behind on his bed. The blood on the shoulder of Thranduil’s silver coat had dried and left a nasty stain on the otherwise gorgeous fabric. He took note, he would need to wash it out. But not yet. The Dwarf held the piece of clothing in his hands for a moment longer before he brought it up to his nose so that he could bury it in the collar of Thranduil’s coat to search for the Elvenking’s scent. Oh, how long had it been since he last got to enjoy the Elf in such an intimate way?


End file.
